A Soul's Salvation
by ShakespeareFreak
Summary: When Judge Claude Frollo falls to his death, he thinks his chances of salvation have vanished. But a childhood hero offers him an undreamed-of hope: a trial to save himself from the fires of damnation. Now, accompanied by a most unusual archangel, Frollo undertakes a spiritual journey that takes him across continents and through the centuries in an effort to save his immortal soul.
1. Prologue: And He Shall Smite the Wicked

**DISCLAIMER:** _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ and all related characters and events belong to Victor Hugo and the Walt Disney Company. This is a not-for-profit work. I am not making any money, nor am I attempting to negatively affect the market for any of the materials shown, or take proceeds from their creators, but rather to expand the fanbase and keep the pre-existing fanbase strong.

A single quote from the film is used at the beginning of this chapter.

**RATING:** T (for some violence, character death, minor suggestive adult themes, and ideologically sensitive material)

Contains a _lot_ of my own personal beliefs concerning the afterlife, many of which do not mesh with any established religion's teaching, and some of which may be considered offensive. Read at your own risk.

The end of this chapter contains a short but fairly graphic description of a very painful death. This will almost certainly be the only instance of such a description.

**SHIPS:** Claude Frollo x Esmeralda (sort of…)

**CHARACTERS ****FEATURED****:** Judge Claude Frollo, Esmeralda, and OCs based on historical and Biblical figures.

* * *

**Prologue: And He Shall Smite the Wicked**

Judge Claude Frollo raised his sword. _"And He shall smite the wicked, and plunge them into the Fiery Pit!"_

Far below, Paris was ablaze, the roar of the flames merging with the cries of the wounded and dying. The very air itself burned in his lungs, the smoke choking his vision. But Frollo didn't care about any of this. Finally. _Finally_ the damned witch would cease to torment him. Everything else no longer mattered.

A crumbling noise beneath his feet. The gargoyle's head on which he stood was breaking off from the cathedral… he lost his balance and very nearly fell, dropping his sword, only saving himself by grabbing hold of the gargoyle's stone neck.

He clung to it desperately, high, high above the blazing inferno.

And then the gargoyle's eyes burned red as it ceased to be lifeless stone, and it _snarled_ at him with a deep hellish roar. In that moment, a bolt of clarity hit him and he _finally_ understood. _Finally_ accepted what the one remaining good part of his soul had been trying to tell him. And of course now it was too late.

The demon dragged him down into the abyss. As he fell down, down, the air grew hotter, searing his skin, burning his throat as he screamed. After what was both an instant and an eternity, he plunged into the sea of molten copper at the base of the cathedral. The flesh was seared off his bones; the pain was excruciating, but mercifully brief. Death came almost instantly. His last thoughts were a scramble of torment and regret… and then darkness.


	2. Chapter I: In Darkness

**Chapter I: In Darkness**

When Claude Frollo came back to himself, he was in absolute darkness. He could see nothing, except himself. He examined his hands, and saw that the flesh was whole and unburned. His hat, his rings, all the symbols of his power, were gone, and he was dressed in a simple black robe.

The pain was gone, too, and so was the blazing madness from his mind. As he examined the events that had led up to this moment, he could see them clearly, and what he saw was that he had been wrong. So very wrong. What he couldn't understand was why he was _here,_ instead of… somewhere else. This couldn't be Hell: he wasn't in any sort of pain; in fact, he was quite comfortable, without even the small aches and pains of age that had crept into his bones in recent years. But it certainly wasn't Heaven, either.

And then a figure emerged from the blackness. A young woman, surely no more than 19. She was cloaked in light, wearing the brilliance like a mantle. Her face was plain, with a square, resolute jaw, and wide brown eyes. Her dark hair was clipped short in the style of a man, and a sword was at her waist. What she wore, he could not say, though she was not naked. She was not by any means pretty, not like Esmeralda, or any woman he had ever heard the soldiers call attractive… but at the same time she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her face was serious, but her eyes, deep and eternal, were kind… he cast his own eyes downward, shying away from that gentle gaze; he didn't deserve such kindness.

_"Claude."_ Her voice was soft, but commanding: he could not disobey that voice, no more than he could sprout wings and fly. He looked up at her, unwilling to meet her gaze, but compelled by that gentle, firm command.

"Who are you?" he whispered fearfully. He was more afraid of the light coming off this girl than he had been of the demon.

She cocked her head, an amused smile on her lips. "Come now, Claude, you haven't forgotten me already! You know who I am." She spoke familiarly, as if he were an old friend.

And of course he _did_ know her, despite having never seen her before. How could he ever not? "Joan of Arc."

She nodded, grinning, but there was a solemnity, even a sadness, behind that grin.

"Why am I…" he looked around, unsure of how to put it, "…here? Why am I not…?" He gulped slightly, unable to finish that. He stared at her pleadingly, his eyes silver as rain.

She wasn't smiling anymore. She looked at him with pain in those soft brown eyes. "You knew me, once…"

He had. Not personally, of course; he had been only a child. But he'd grown up in a France oppressed, a France that was England's whore, kicked to the ground and beaten. And then, when he was 11, he'd begun hearing tales of The Maid, of the woman who rode round on horseback with the soldiers, and the English curs fled before her. He'd heard of her battles, and of the great cry that had gone up wherever she went, the names of the Lord Christ and His Holy Mother. The tales were mere rumors at first, but before long they were all anyone talked of, the exaltation of Joan the Maid, the teenaged savior of France, the hero, the saint who walked among the living. And of _course_ he'd adored her; how could he not? How could anyone not?

But the English hadn't; she'd been captured when he was 12. The day the news reached Paris, he'd gone outside and sobbed in an alley, his face against a wall. What was worse was the news that came afterward: that she was being tried not as a political prisoner, but as a witch.

This was impossible! The savior of France, inspired directly from God, a _witch?_ Never! Or so he'd railed to his friends, and to anyone who would listen. But even as he did so, a seed of doubt had been planted in his mind, and he began to wonder…

May 30th of the following year, Joan was convicted and burned at the stake. And 13-year-old Claude didn't know how he felt about it anymore. The _Church_ had declared her a sorceress, a heretic… not the English nobles, but the Church. And even back then, he'd put his faith in them, in the men who had dedicated their lives to the service of the Lord and Savior; and in the legal process, too, which imposed order on a chaotic world. Both had declared her guilty.

He didn't know, but still he wept, silent tears of confusion, at the loss of his once-hero, and perhaps that was the day something in him started to break. For he had hated those tears, hated that tumult and confusion in his mind that had accompanied them; and as far as he could recall, he never cried again.

He spent much of his free time as a young man, studying both law and religion, trying to make sense of it all. But slowly, thoughts of Joan were replaced by thoughts of other things, by daily worries and cares, and, too, by ambition and growing power. Later, when he was 30, and had all but forgotten, he had gained access to her trial records, and had spent a long sleepless night pouring over them. There had been no answers… and the gypsies had come by then, and everything was changing, and the young woman he had once revered as a saint was quickly pushed back out of his mind by other matters. And less than a decade after that, when she was posthumously acquitted, he barely noticed.

And now she stood before him, and he knew that everything he had believed as a child was true, because of that light washing off her in waves, and because of the kindness in her eyes. Half a century had passed, and yet for a moment he was back on that terrible day of May 30th, 1431, the tears making silent tracks down his cheeks, and swearing to never forget that day.

But he had, of course. He'd forgotten. As he looked at her, he saw all the parallels between her life and the events that had unfolded in his own, culminating in his bringing a young woman to the stake to be burned to death. He winced openly, feeling a stab of guilt as sharp as a dagger. For the first time since appearing here (wherever _here_ was), his greatest worry was not for himself and whatever fate awaited him, but for Esmeralda. He hoped she was all right.

Joan was smiling again. "She is," she assured him, and it took a moment for Claude to realize that she was responding to his silent thought. "That's the tricky thing about you, Claude: you have a core of decency and kindness, even if most creatures don't see it, save your horses and dogs. I've always liked that about you."

That short speech raised so many questions. _She could read his mind? She actually_ liked _him, and didn't find his actions intolerable and disgusting?_ He picked the most pressing one: "Have you come to Save me?" His breath caught in his throat at the sudden hope filling him as he heard himself say it aloud. He shouldn't ask for this, he didn't _deserve_ to be saved, and yet—

Joan shook her head. "I can't," she said sadly, and his heart plummeted in fear. "I'm sorry, but it doesn't work that way."

He said nothing; he couldn't. Stretching before him in his mind was an eternity of torment, and terror had stolen his words. A single tear rolled silently down his cheek.

"You do have a chance, though." His head jerked up, a wild hope burning in his eyes, still filled with tears. "A… test. If you choose to accept it."

He barked a hysterical laugh; she'd offered him a chance to save himself from damnation! How could he refuse?

Her face was sober. "What I have offered you, from my Lord, is a true chance at salvation. But... it will be difficult, and painful. Perhaps you will even wish you had never accepted it at all." She stared at him, unsmiling. The slightly wild grin faded from his face. "And Claude… I cannot guarantee that you will succeed."

He nodded grimly, his brow furrowed in resolve. "I understand." He took a deep breath. "I will accept it, be what it may."

Her face broke into a grin, brilliant as the sun. "I am glad." She took his hand. The gentle touch flooded him with warmth and strength. "I leave you now, then. In the hands of Someone far greater than I." She began to fade into a blinding whiteness, so bright he had to close his eyes against it. But her hand was still on his, and he heard her voice once more: "Good luck, my friend."

Then she was gone, and he was once more alone in the darkness.


	3. Chapter II: Gabriel

**Chapter II: Gabriel**

And so he waited. And waited. And waited. Whether it was hours or days, he did not know. Perhaps it was years. In this place, with no day nor night, but merely blackness, it was impossible to tell. He never felt hungry or thirsty or tired; these needs had passed with his life.

What he _did_ feel, however, was a growing sense of impatience. When Joan had first left him, he had been anxious… no, more than anxious. He'd been downright _terrified_; of who—or what—might be coming. Not all angels were beings strictly of peace: some of those in Revelations especially were quite vengeful. And he'd been filled with fear at how one of those might handle the treatment of one such as himself, who had sinned so deeply. This test, too… Joan had said merely that it would be difficult, even painful. What was he to endure? He'd tried to steel himself for what might lie ahead, telling himself that whatever pain or horror he was to experience, it would be worth it to save himself from damnation.

As time passed in an immeasurable eternity, he grew more nervous still. _Was_ he in Hell after all? Was the Joan he had seen a demon in disguise, merely toying with him? Such a thing would have been unthinkable in her presence, but alone, with nothing to be seen but endless darkness, the thought preyed on him.

But now, the anxiety had passed, leaving him… well, frankly bored. Whatever was to come next, even if it were the fires of damnation, seemed like it would be a welcome relief from all this _waiting_. He tapped his foot impatiently. "Get _on_ with it," he growled aloud.

A strange voice spoke from behind him. **_Oh, I'm sorry, did I keep you long?_** Claude whirled around to see… the strangest being he had ever beheld.

The creature was vaguely humanoid in shape, but it appeared to have too many limbs… sometimes it had six arms, sometimes three legs; sometimes it had no arms at all and ten legs. It shimmered and changed before his eyes like a mirage, dizzying him as he tried to comprehend it. A pair of huge, shining multicoloured wings sprouted from its shoulders. Its hair was short, and looked as if the creature had just gotten out of bed. This tousled mess of hair was an unnatural shade of pink. Its eyes were deep and endless, and glittered like gemstones. One eye was pink as the clouds at sunset, the other sapphire-blue. Despite its many inhuman qualities, he somehow got the distinct impression that the creature was male. He could not say what clothes it wore, for it shifted and changed almost too fast for the eye to follow. It also held a great golden horn in one hand.

All this was too much to take in, and Claude, after staring a moment in awe, fell to his knees and prostrated himself in fear and wonder.

**_Don't be afraid,_** said the voice, which seemed to be many voices at once, echoing. Somehow, despite the strangeness of its voice, he felt that the creature was made vaguely uncomfortable by his act of fear and reverence.

He tried to look up, but upon seeing the dizzying image, quickly returned his face to the ground. "Wh-who are y-you?" he asked, his voice shaking badly.

**_I am the Archangel Gabriel._**

Claude lowered himself still closer to the ground, the knowledge of this being's powerful identity crushing him.

**_Come on, get up…_** The strange voice actually _sighed,_ sounding irritated. **_We've much to do, and not a lot of time._**

His mind reeling from contrast between the creature's otherworldly appearance and its exceedingly ordinary style of speaking, Claude could only shake his head speechlessly.

**_Oh!_** Gabriel gasped, as if in sudden comprehension. **_Sometimes I forget, you mortals have a funny reaction to how I look. Sorry about that._** A pause. **_Is this better?_**

Claude hesitantly looked up. The being now standing before him looked far more how he'd imagine an archangel to appear—a golden halo surrounding long, flowing blonde hair, pristine white robes, and large feathered wings like a dove's. Still…

**_No, no, this doesn't feel right…_** Gabriel said, clicking his tongue. **_I know this is what you people want to see, but it just isn't_ me.** The shape morphed again. This time, Gabriel had a more or less normal human form, with two arms and two legs, but retained the odd pink hair and the pink-and-blue eyes. The multicoloured wings also remained. He wore a long, deep blue coat that went down to his ankles, and leather sandals on his feet. **_How about this? Can you deal with it?_**

"…I… yes…" Claude said, standing cautiously.

**_Good!_** Gabriel flashed a wide, brilliant grin at him. **_Come along, now! So much to do, so much to see! But first…_** he laid a hand on Claude's shoulder. At the touch, something odd happened. It felt like something heavy was dropped onto Claude's shoulders, and simultaneously something changed in his mind, though he could not say what.

"What have you done to me?" he asked the angel, wonderingly.

Gabriel gave him a crooked grin. **_I restored your mortal way of thinking._** At Claude's blank stare, he clarified, **_When people die, their thoughts become far clearer, letting them see what's really important and disregard everything else. But for this trial, you will need all the nasty mortal emotions that come with mortal thoughts: anger, prejudice, jealousy, pride, et cetera._**

"But why?"

**_You'll see…_** Gabriel took his hand and started to lead him off.

Claude paused. "Wait." Gabriel stopped, looking at him quizzically. "What… what happens if I fail?"

Gabriel's whole aspect changed. His eyes glowed gold, and he seemed to grow much, much bigger, while still remaining the same size. Suddenly, he didn't seem like the amiably eccentric man of a moment ago. In him, Claude could see a Biblical angel of righteous vengeance, and he cowered before that Heavenly rage. **_What do you think?_**

"…I… I see," Claude whispered, when he finally regained his voice, though it still sounded hoarse and weak in his own ears.

Gabriel returned to his normal demeanor in an instant. It was hard to believe that the avenging angel and the pink-haired man who now stood smiling at Claude were one and the same, but now Claude was sure that he'd never forget whom he was _really_ talking to. **_So, you'll just have to succeed, is all._** He saw the naked fear in Claude's face, and those bi-coloured eyes softened. **_Don't worry. It won't be easy, but we wouldn't give you a trial you couldn't pass, either._**

Claude nodded firmly, steeling his resolve once more. _I now know the stakes. They have never been higher. So I_ must _succeed. No matter what._

**_That's the spirit!_** Gabriel laughed, and Claude realized with a jolt that once again his companion could read his mind.

_I'll have to be mindful of what I think…_ he thought, then winced and glanced at Gabriel.

**_Nah, that's part of it too,_** the archangel said, seeming unperturbed. **_Humans, especially ones like you, are quite good at lying with their words and actions, but your thoughts will always reveal your true self._** At Claude's look of horror, he chuckled. **_Don't worry; this might even help you. Your true self isn't as bad as you think._** He winked. **_You'll see. Now c'mon, will you?_**

Once more he grasped Claude's hand, and this time met with no resistance as he led him away through the blackness. A window seemed to open ahead of them, bright sunlight streaming through it as it grew and grew, until it was wide enough for them to walk through. The sunlight blinded Claude, making him squint so he could not see where the archangel was leading him.

Claude's final thought before they stepped across the threshold into the sunlight was, _What have I gotten myself into?_


End file.
